'You do me too much honour. It never even crossed my mind that you might be a woman. I merely thought that Leslie Searle had gone away disguised as a woman. I thought they were probably your things, and that he had gone to you. But the giving up of the whole of Searle's life and belongings puzzled me. He wouldn't do that unless he had another personality to step into. It was only then that I began to wonder whether Searle was masquerading and wasn't a man at all. It didn't seem as wild an idea as it might have, because I had so lately seen that case of arrest for theft that turned out so surprisingly. I had seen how easily it could be done. And then there was you. Staring me in the face, so to speak. A personality all ready for Searle to dissolve into. A personality who had most conveniently been painting in Scotland while Searle was fooling the intelligentsia in Orfordshire. His glance went to the art display. 'Did you hire these for the occasion, or did you paint them?
'Oh, I painted them. I spend my summers in Europe painting.
'Ever been in Scotland?
'No.
'You must go and see it sometime. It's grand. How did you know that Suilven had that "Look-at-me!" look?
'That is the way it looked on the postcard. Are you Scottish? Grant is a Scottish name, isn't it?
'A renegade Scot. My grandfather belonged to Strathspey. He looked at the serried ranks of canvas evidence and smiled. 'As fine and wholesale and convincing an alibi as ever I saw.
'I don't know, she said, doubtfully, considering them. 'I think to another painter they might be far more of a confession. They're so-arrogantly destructive. And angry. Aren't they. I would paint them all differently today now that I have known Liz, and-grown up, and Marguerite has died in my heart as well as in reality. It is very growing-up to find that someone you loved all your life never existed at all. Are you married, Inspector?
'No. Why?
'I don't know, she said vaguely. 'I just wondered how you understood so quickly about what had happened to me over Marguerite. And I suppose one expects married people to be more sympathetic to emotional vagaries. Which is quite absurd, because they are normally far too cluttered up with their own emotional problems to have spare sympathy. It is the unattached person who-who helps. Won't you have some more coffee?
'You make coffee even better than you paint.
'You haven't come to arrest me, or you wouldn't be drinking my coffee.
'Quite right. I wouldn't. I wouldn't even drink the coffee of a practical joker.
'But you don't mind drinking with a woman who planned long and elaborately to kill someone?
'And changed her mind. There are quite a few people I would willingly have killed in my time. Indeed, with prison no more penitential than a not very good public school, and the death sentence on the point of being abolished, I think I'll make a little list, a la Gilbert. Then when I grow a little aged I shall make a total sweep-ten or so for the price of one-and retire comfortably to be well cared-for for the rest of my life.
'You are very kind, she said irrelevantly. 'I haven't really committed any crime, she said presently, 'so they can't prosecute me for anything, can they?
'My dear Miss Searle, you have committed practically every known crime in the book. The worst and most unforgivable being to waste the time of the overworked police forces of this country.
'But that isn't a crime, is it? That is what the police are there for. I don't mean: to have their time wasted, but to make sure that there has been nothing fishy about a happening. There isn't any law that can punish one for what you have called a practical joke, surely?
'There is always "breach of the peace". It is quite wonderful what a variety of things can be induced to come under the heading of breach of the peace.
'And what happens when you breach the peace?
'You are treated to a little homily and fined.
'Fined!
'A quite inappropriate sum, more often than not.
'Then I shan't be sent to prison?
'Not unless you have done something that I don't yet know about. And I wouldn't put it past you, as they say in Strathspey.
'Oh, no, she said. 'No. You really do know all about me. I don't know how you know all you do, if it comes to that.
'Our policemen are wonderful. Hadn't you heard?
'You must have been pretty sure that you knew all about me before you came looking for that brown fleck in my iris.
'Yes. Your policemen are wonderful too. They looked up the births in Jobling, Conn., for me. The infant that Mr and Mrs Durfey Searle took with them when they left Jobling for points south, was, they reported, female. After that I would have been surprised to death if there had been no brown fleck.
'So you ganged up on me. Her hands had stopped shaking, he noticed. He was glad that she had reached the stage of achieving a flippancy. 'Are you going to take me away with you now?
'On the contrary. This is my farewell to you.
'Farewell? You can't have come to take farewell of someone you don't know.
'Where our mutual acquaintance is concerned I, as they say, have the advantage of you. I may be quite new to you-or practically new-but you have been in my hair for the last fourteen days, and I shall be very glad to get you out.
'Then you don't take me to a police station or anything like that?
'No. Not unless you show any signs of beating it out of the country. In which case an officer would no doubt appear at your elbow with a pressing invitation to remain.
'Oh, I'm not going to run away. I am truly sorry for what I have done. I mean, for the trouble-and I suppose the-the misery I have caused.
'Yes. Misery is the appropriate word, I feel.
'I am sorry most of all for what Liz must have suffered.
'It was gratuitously wicked of you to stage that quarrel at the Swan, wasn't it?
'Yes. Yes, it was unforgivable. But he maddened me so. He was so smug. So unconsciously smug. Everything had always been easy for him. She saw the comment in his face, and protested: 'Yes, even Marguerite's death! He went straight from that into Liz's arms. He never really knew desolation. Or fear. Or despair. Or any of the big, grinding things in life. He was quite convinced that nothing irretrievable would ever happen to him. If his «Marguerite» died there would always be a «Liz» there. I wanted him to suffer. To be caught in something that he couldn't get out of. To meet trouble and for once be stuck with it. And you can't say I wasn't right! He'll never be so smug again. Will he? Will he, then!
'No, I suppose not. Indeed, I'm sure not.
'I'm sorry Liz had to be hurt. I would go to prison if I could undo that. But I've given her a much better Walter than the one she was going to marry. She really is in love with that poor egotistical wretch of a creature, you know. Well, I've made him over for her. I'll be surprised if he isn't a new man from now on.
'If I don't go, you'll be proving to me that you are a public benefactor instead of an offender under breach-of-the-peace.
'What happens to me now? Do I just sit and wait?
'A constable will no doubt serve you solemnly with a summons to appear at a magistrate's court. Have you a lawyer, by the way?
'Yes, I have an old man in a funny little office who keeps my letters till I want them. He's called Bing, Parry, Parry, and Bing, but I don't think he is any of them, actually.
'Then you had better go and see him and tell him what you have done.
'All of it?
'The relevant bits. You can probably leave out the quarrel at the Swan, and anything else that you're particularly ashamed of. She reacted to that, he noticed. 'But don't leave out too much. Lawyers like to know; and they are almost as unshockable as the police.